Robert Blair Quotes

But if there be an hereafter,And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc'dAnd suffer'd to speak out, tells every man,Then must it be an awful thing to die;More horrid yet to die by one's own hand. The tap'ring pyramid, the Egyptian's pride, And wonder of the world, whose spiky top Has wounded the thick cloud. The best-concerted schemes men lay for fame, Die fast away: only themselves die faster. The far-fam'd sculptor, and the laurell'd bard, Those bold insurancers of deathless fame, Supply their little feeble aids in vain. Beauty! thou pretty plaything! dear deceit, That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart, And gives it a new pulse unknown before! Affectation is certain deformity; by forming themselves on fantastic models, the young begin with being ridiculous, and often end in being vicious. Throughout the whole vegetable, sensible, and rational world, whatever makes progress towards maturity, as soon as it has passed that point, begins to verge towards decay. How shocking must thy summons be, O death, to him that is at ease in his possessions! who, counting on long years of pleasure here, is quite unfurnished for the world to come. Action, so to speak, is the genius of nature. The good he scorn'd Stalk'd off reluctant, like an ill-us'd ghost, Not to return; or if it did, its visits Like those of angels, short, and far between. Friendship! Mysterious cement of the soul, Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society. The grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled, Shakes off her wonted firmness. Industry is not only the instrument of improvement, but the foundation of pleasure. He who is a stranger to it may possess, but cannot enjoy, for it is labor only which gives relish to pleasure. It is the indispensable condition of possessing a sound mind in a sound body, and it is the appointed vehicle of every good to man. How blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver in comparison with those of guilt. Whistling aloud to bear his courage up. Of joys departed, not to return, how painful the remembrance Our time is fixed, and all our days are number'd; <br /> How long, how short, we know not:�'this we know, <br /> Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, <br /> Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission. That discipline which corrects the eagerness of worldly passions, which fortifies the heart with virtuous principles, which enlightens the mind with useful knowledge, and furnishes to it matter of enjoyment from within itself, is of more consequence to real felicity than all the provisions which we can make of the goods of fortune. Its visits, like those of angels, short, and far between. The good he scorned<br /> Stalked off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost,<br /> Not to return; or if it did, in visits<br /> Like those of angels, short and far between. The schoolboy, with his satchel in his hand,<br /> Whistling aloud to bear his courage up. Careless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell<br /> 'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms:<br /> Where light-heel'd ghosts and visionary shades,<br /> Beneath the wan, cold Moon (as Fame reports)<br /> Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds<br /> No other merriment, dull tree! is thine. Th' oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying villains,<br /> Who ravag'd kingdoms, and laid empires waste,<br /> And in a cruel wantonness of power,<br /> Thinn'd states of half their people, and gave up<br /> To want the rest. Who gather round, and wonder at the tale<br /> Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,<br /> That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand<br /> O'er some new-open'd grave; and, (strange to tell!)<br /> Evanishes at crowing of the cock. When it draws near to witching time of night. Smiled like yon knot of cowslips on a cliff. The tap'ring pyramid, the Egyptian's pride,<br /> And wonder of the world, whose spiky top<br /> Has wounded the thick cloud. The best-concerted schemes men lay for fame,<br /> Die fast away: only themselves die faster.<br /> The far-fam'd sculptor, and the laurell'd bard,<br /> Those bold insurancers of deathless fame,<br /> Supply their little feeble aids in vain. Ye undertakers, tell us,<br /> 'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit,<br /> Why is the principal conceal'd, for which<br /> You make this mighty stir? See yonder maker of the dead man's bed,<br /> The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle,<br /> Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole<br /> A gentle tear. The grave, dread thing!<br /> Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled,<br /> Shakes off her wonted firmness.

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